


Sharing The Load I: A Mutual Grief

by Teej



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teej/pseuds/Teej
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends need to be able to help others share the burdens of grief and loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post Reichenbach Falls fic. Beware of spoilers. This is also one of two fics dealing with the aftermath of _that_ day.

**Sharing the Load I**

**A Mutual Grief**

“John?”

He blinked, once, twice, then finally came back to himself when the question was repeated.

“John?” There was a hint of worry to the voice before he focused on the speaker. 

The details came to him slowly. A tiny, slender blonde in jeans, flat soled boots, heavy winter coat. Anne Lestrade stood before him, gazing at him in concern. She was hunkered into the coat, a bobble hat pulled down over her hair and looking pink from the effort of walking around outside in the cold.

“Yes,” John suddenly scrambled to his feet, “Anne. Yes, hello.” He held a hand out to her.

“No, don't get up!” She protested as he stood up from the bench where he had been sitting. 

“No, no, I was just...” he started to say then caught himself. “Here, have a seat.” He offered her his spot on the bench. 

She took his hand, gripping it warmly in her gloves, and studied his face for a moment. He could see the questions in her eyes and honestly hoped that she wouldn't ask them.

“I was just out having a walk. What brings you out here?” he asked before she could question him.

“Same as you apparently.” She smiled at him and sat down, nodding at him to join her. “Just out having a walk and a think. Waiting for Greg.”

“Yeah,” John said, tucking his chin in and forcing a slight smile. He gazed at her a moment. “Oh, I see.” He had been sitting in St. Jame's Park, near Storey's Gate. Scotland Yard wasn't all that far away from the park, either. Anne smiled as he made the connection. He sat down next to her. “I thought...” he started to say.

Anne smiled, nodding her head. “That I was having an affair?” He looked at her quite frankly, his eyes searching her face as she shook her head. “I wasn't. He drew the wrong conclusion.”

He. 

Sherlock. 

Drew the wrong conclusion? 

John could hardly bring himself to think. The pain was still too raw, too new. Anne was watching him carefully as if unsure how the waters lay. She gave him a reassuring smile, and looked out over the park. 

“I've been working with a physical therapist attached to the Ballet. He just happens to be a PE teacher, too. Looks were a little deceiving. I'm not surprised a wrong conclusion was drawn. Rest assured. Greg and I are still together.”

“That's good to hear,” John replied, only too aware that people drew the wrong conclusions about him, as well. “How's that going, anyway? The therapy?”

Anne shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. I still can't get on point with that toe.” She waggled her left foot, the one John had actually seen being broken over a streaming live webcam. 

“And the knee?” 

Anne heaved a sigh. “I've had to have it reset twice since, well you know, since then. You were right, it hurts like hell when you know it's coming.” Anne studied his profile a moment, smiling in self mockery. 

John let out a short rueful laugh, his breath misting in the frigid air. He glanced down at his hands and nodded his head. “You're a ballet dancer, you've handled that kind of pain.”

“Yeah, you learn to.” She studied him a moment longer. “Still, it doesn't bode too well for a dance career I'm afraid.” She paused and finally asked the question he dreaded. “How are you, John?” 

He closed his eyes, knowing the question was going to come up sooner or later and dreading it all the same. “Fine, I'm fine,” he said automatically. 

Anne gazed at him a moment. “You're a terrible liar, you know?”

He blinked and looked at her, frowning slightly. Anne just smiled softly and looked away.

“It's okay though. I know you're not alright. None of us are at the moment.” She faced him again, studying his worn, lined face, the smattering of grey in his short blonde hair, the dark circles under his eyes. She gave him a soft, understanding smile. “I would perfectly understand if you don't care to talk about it either.”

He looked at her, really looked, and realized that despite their differences in background, upbringing, hell even nationality, they did have a few powerful things in common. Both had lead rigorous lives of discipline. His med schooling and military career, her boarding schools and heavily competitive dancing. You either faced adversity, pain and suffering head on and realistically, or fall by the wayside.

“What did you mean, none of us are at the moment?” he asked, trying to deflect questions from himself. 

Anne gazed out over the expanse of grass and trees. “I mean since...” she paused, hesitant. “Since Sherlock's death and before.”

There, it was out now. Out in the open. Couldn't avoid talking about him now.

“How so?” John asked, trying to keep from physically flinching at the subject, he couldn't look at Anne and followed her gaze out over the park.

“He had to do it,” Anne said softly. “You understand that don't you?” There was a plaintive note in her voice. 

John frowned thoughtfully, glancing at her, seeing just a glimpse of pain in her eyes.

She looked at him again. “He had no choice.”

“You mean Lestrade?” he asked, seeing just how deep the pain was. He was a bit taken aback. 

Anne nodded. “He had to issue the warrant. He...” Anne hesitated.

“Of course, yes,” John quickly, gallantly replied. He had been angry then, at Lestrade for the arrests, but reality told him that Lestrade was just an officer doing the job he was required to do. There was no blaming the man. When he considered the circumstances, Lestrade had managed to soften the blow as much as he could. “I understand that, Anne.” He studied her a moment and was taken aback at the obvious relief on her face.

“I can't begin to even tell you the depth of remorse he's faced since then,” she said quietly, searching his eyes, almost imploring him to understand. “Arresting Sherlock was the last time Greg saw him alive. He feels so guilty. He can't show it, to anyone. Except me, I'm his wife after all. This whole thing has just been eating him alive,” Anne said softly. “He's been so angry, so bottled up. Helpless. He's always been so confident. The ostracism alone...” Anne heaved a sigh and dropped her head, shaking it. 

Ostracism, of course, John realized. The entire Met would shun a so-called dirty cop. “He'll survive this, Anne. It's just going to take time,” John said, hiding the surprise he was feeling that Anne would open up to him about such a matter.

“You aren't angry with him, are you?” Anne asked abruptly. “I mean we've hardly seen you.”

She was about to say 'since the funeral' for which he was just as glad that she hadn't. He flashed a quick smile her direction. “No,” John said realizing he really wasn't angry with Lestrade any more. “He was only doing his job. His hands were tied.” He shrugged. “Thoroughly tied I might add. Sally Donovon, however, has a lot to answer for.” That came out a little bitingly, he realized.

“She's complicit,” Anne said bitterly causing John to look at her, puzzled. The Anne he knew rarely ever spoke poorly of anyone.

She looked ashamed at the admittance. “She's pretty much destroyed Greg's career. Demotion is the least of his worries right now, they actually are trying to force him to retire early.” She looked down at her lap, searching for the words. “We've been friends, we've had dinners together, we...” John could see her jaw tighten as she struggled to speak. “What she's done... not only to Greg but to Sherlock? It's tantamount to murder as far as I'm concerned.” Anne shook her head, letting out a softly derisive laugh. “Listen to me, the eternal optimist, finally saying something bad about someone for a change.”

“Anne,” John murmured. “It's okay.”

“I can't even speak her name without feeling such a...” Anne said quietly looking up again, as if by admitting her words she was committing some sort of crime. “Such anger.” 

John could hear a weight of grief in her voice as she spoke the word. “I've been feeling like this more and more since that nasty business with Elena. Then that mess with Sherlock in Montana.”

He flinched. Sherlock, Oh God. A body turned to soap. Montana. That whole entire murder case that literally had blown Anne's family apart. “You're not angry with...” he started to say, but Anne shook her head. 

“No, of course not, how could I?” She glanced imploringly at him seeing the mutual grief in John's features. “The truth always comes out in the end, doesn't it? Sometimes too late.” She looked at her hands, sadness tinged on her features. “I know he didn't just commit suicide, John. Something had to have been behind it. Something we just can't see. Greg has been pouring over the details at home. It's been the one thing keeping him sane during the investigation. He's not allowed to do anything at work but ride a desk. So he's focusing on what happened.”

John winced. It was really out now. He couldn’t avoid the topic, but he also couldn't avoid the fact that someone, even as peripherally on the fringe as Anne Lestrade was from the center of events, could be so deeply affected by the outcome. He could hear the worry, the fear, the ache of pain in her voice for someone she loved. It was all ripples in a pond. It eventually touched all of them.

“Moriarty.” Anne said it so softly he almost didn't hear the word, spoken with a depth of fear and revulsion.

“What...” John stammered. “What about him?” Anne looked at John and seemed to echo his very thoughts. 

“Greg thinks he had him in a position where he had no choice but to do the unthinkable.”

“You mean, Sherlock?” John asked. Solemnly Anne nodded her head. John hunkered into his jacket, focusing on his knee to avoid looking her in the eye. “The same thought's crossed my mind,” he admitted. Far, far more than just crossed his mind.

Anne nodded. “Forgive me for saying this John if it's painful? If it's too much just stop me?”

John frowned, still gazing at his knee then looked at her. “Anne, you can tell me whatever you like... I'd like to think we're still friends.” That familiar kindness in his eyes and features won past the weariness and stoicism that had been his façade for far too long now. 

“Sherlock lived to reveal the truth, even if he had to lie and deceive to get there. I chose what he said over my entire family, knowing that he would always find the truth. That's why I find this whole fraud business so utterly unbelievable, John. Sherlock certainly didn't have sterling people skills but for clarifying and revealing truth? He has no equal.” She looked at him. “There is no way I can believe he was a fraud.” 

John's own jaw tightened, and he nodded his agreement. 

“Between you and I, John, the internal investigation of all Greg's cases has been revealing that there is simply no way that Sherlock could have perpetrated all those crimes to make himself look good.”

“Not to mention Lestrade himself. He's a thorough and highly competent detective,” John added kindly, not bothering to add all the countless hours _he'd_ spent helping investigate so many of those cases. All the time spent watching Sherlock perform the chemical analyses. All the horrific surprises and experiments he lived with on an almost daily basis. All the time doing research, the chasing, the whole thrilling pursuit of... He shook himself, forcing himself to focus on the very real and present time. 

Anne smiled sadly. “Greg didn't get to his position being sloppy and a fool. His job requires making sure all the i's were dotted and t's crossed. All of the evidence is rock solid. And they aren't even a third of the way through Greg's cases.”

“All it takes is one, though,” John said gently.

“Yes,” she agreed. Silence fell between them for a moment before she added, “But you and I both know that none will be found.”

John nodded his head in agreement. An uneasy silence fell between them that was interrupted, much to his relief, by a chirp from a mobile. Anne dug into a pocket and pulled her phone out, hitting a button and gazing at the screen. A second later, she poked out a short message, smiling apologetically at him. “Sorry about this.” She held the phone up and hit send.

John just smiled, “No worries, yeah?”

“How's Mrs. Hudson? Have you seen her?” Anne asked, slipping the phone away. John nodded his head, swallowing a lump in his throat away.

“Getting by. Getting by.”

“I should go and see her, huh?”

“She'd like that,” John agreed. “You know how she loves company. Your Dad? He still in Dorset?”

“Stateside at the moment. Dealing with legal matters. He's supposed to be back in June sometime. He'd like a visit too.” She looked at John a hint of hope in her eyes. John pursed his lips but was careful not to commit to anything.

It was still there a lurking sadness in the back of her eyes. If it was the last thing he wanted it was pity. From anyone.

“John,” Anne said as if reading his mind. Her voice was low and soft. “I know you won't talk about it but you two were close. We all saw it. You knew him better in less time than Greg and I have in several years. He needed that. He was lucky. Why won't let your friends grieve with you?” 

John went rigidly still. His jaw muscles tightening. Damn. She was good. He blinked, hard for a few moments and barely felt it when she reached over and gently squeezed his gloved hand where it rested on his leg. He knew she could see the struggle on his face. Blessedly she stopped talking, just gently clutching his hand and looking away over the park, suspiciously reaching up to wipe something away from her cheek with her other hand. His head dipped, as he swallowed hard. His mouth a thin rigid line as he forced himself to focus on her hand. 

For a split second he gently returned the squeeze. Reassuring. He realized he was barely trembling. Sucking in a breath of air he looked away, clearing his throat, trying to release the sudden pent up tension within him. He was beginning to understand why Lestrade put up a fight for his wife. He smiled ruefully, his eyesight coming to rest on a familiar figure walking up the path, wearing a dark overcoat, one hand shoved in a pocket the other carrying a cardboard cup holder with drinks in it.

As he drew closer John could see the weight of the last few months in Lestrade's bearing; his hair was even more grey than he remembered and he almost looked gaunt. A weight of pain in his dark eyes followed by a merest hint of trepidation as he walked up to them. Both men nodded at one another as Lestrade extracted his hand, tugged one of the cups out and handed it to his wife. 

“Thank you, dear.” Anne murmured releasing John's hand and taking it. John blinked surprise when Lestrade pulled another out and held it out to him.

“What's this?” John asked, looking him squarely in the eyes. Lestrade cleared his throat, holding the cup out.

“Coffee, black, no sugar.”

John said nothing, just holding Lestrade's gaze. 

“Peace offering?” Lestrade suggested.

For a few moments longer John just stared back, then he snorted softly and looked at Anne, who was judiciously holding her cup to her lips with both hands, letting the steam warm her face and gazing back at him with wide, innocent, big blue eyes.

“Right.” John said, reaching for the cup and seeing a flash of relief on Lestrade's face. He tugged the other cup out, tossing the carrier in the nearby bin. When he turned back John was on his feet and holding out his hand to him. Lestrade froze, staring at him a moment, completely taken off guard.

“No hard feelings,” John said simply. Lestrade's jaw tightened as he reached out to grip John's hand, his dark eyes searching John's face for any sign of duplicity. There was none. Lestrade's slight smirk was thank you enough.

“Had lunch? We're about to head out. Office kicked me out early today. Investigators were getting too frustrated. Can't seem to find anything wrong,” Lestrade said with a hint of mocking mystery in his voice. 

John was about to say no when he glanced down at Anne. She hadn't moved, just sipping coffee from her cup and looking over the rim at him with those eyes, hopeful, pleading. His gaze narrowed, and he looked away, pursing his lips in thought.

“You need to stop doing that,” he said waving an admonishing finger at her. Her eyebrows rose up in surprise as she pulled the cup away. She was about to protest when Lestrade cut her off.

“Forget it, mate. That trick works on me every time. Haven't found a way to defeat it yet.” 

John heaved a sigh and looked at Anne in mock reproach. “Okay, fine, I'll have lunch with you.”

Anne flashed a delighted smile at him, springing to her feet. “Oh good! Look, I'm gonna dash ahead and use the ladies, I'll catch up in a minute, yeah?” She leaned over and gave John a gentle peck on the cheek. “Thanks, John!” She said, causing him to blink in surprise before she turned and briskly walked ahead.

For an awkward moment, both men just stood still, silently sipping their coffees, watching her walk away. 

“Never thought I'd see the day she would say something bad about someone,” John said, breaking the ice.

“Donovon,” Lestrade said flatly, leading the way forward. “In Anne's mind, once you cross a line with her? That's it. You're done.” He made a cutting gesture across his throat.

“How's that going anyway? Donovon and all?” John asked as they settled into a comfortable amble along the path.

“Not how she expected,” Lestrade rumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Tainted by association. Everything she's ever done since moving onto my team is going under the rake as well. She's as desk bound as I am.”

John just pursed his lips in thought. “Bet that's frustrating...” he said dryly.

Lestrade snorted derisively and drew in a breath. “And how. They want me to retire, insist they are going to find something. Want me to take an easy way out before they do find something to hang on me.”

“And?” John asked.

“I'm going to make them find it first.”

John glanced at him. He could only imagine the intense amount of scrutiny, scorn, derision and pressure he was going through with his job. “Isn't that a bit of a risk?”

“Sure. I could lose my job, my pension, even end up in jail if they really want to hang my hide on the wall.”

“What's made you decide to stick it out?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said frankly, then he nodded his head in the direction Anne had taken. “And her.”

“How can Sherlock make you decided that?” John started, looking at Lestrade.

“Seeds of doubt,” Lestrade replied, sipping at his coffee earning a confused look from John.  
“Remember that last day at the flat? Sherlock said it all starts by planting in our heads a little seed of doubt and it all falls from there.”

“Yeah, and?”

“There is no doubt.” Lestrade replied simply. “I've been over it and over it and over it a thousand times. Sherlock never wavered. My work, I've never been uncertain of until _that_ day. Anne's faith in both of us can be staggering. She pointed out to me that we shouldn't be doubting Sherlock. She pointed out that I shouldn't be doubting myself. That there is something bigger happening. I agree.”

John mulled on those words for a moment. “You are that certain nothing will be found in your case files? What if...”

“I wasn't the big fish Moriarty was after. He was after Sherlock. Get the lynchpin and the rest falls. Sort of what Donovon is finding out about now. But nothing is going to happen. I might get forced out, demoted, fined. In the long run what will matter, John, is that Sherlock was not a fraud. Anne believes that the truth will reveal itself eventually, we just have to wait for it.”

“She also thinks that Sherlock was trying to protect us from something as well.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded, finishing off his coffee. “So with him gone,” Lestrade said carefully, “it's up to us to start putting the pieces back together and see what we can find.”

“Us?” John asked.

“Of course, us.” Lestrade said, crushing the cup in his hands and tossing it into a bin. “You especially. Maybe, God help us, even Mycroft Holmes, if he comes out of hiding anytime soon.”

John fell silent, drinking coffee, his eyes lost in thought as the two men ambled on.

“In any event,” Lestrade continued. “I need to see it through, just to prove to whoever will listen that I wasn't wrong about Sherlock.”

“Is that what they're telling you then? That you were wrong?” John said looking away.

“And how. Every day.”

“Anne doesn't believe it?”

“Nope. Even after Montana. Especially after Montana.” Lestrade's eyes grew large with remembrance. “And Sherlock really fleeced her hide, then. She forgave him, because he was right.”

There was an echo of that remembrance in John's eyes as he mulled over Lestrade's words.

“There's never been a doubt in my mind either.” John finally said. “Never will be. There, I said it.” He tossed off the last of his coffee. For a moment he felt the weight of the grief that he had been carrying lift just a little.

“So. Where're we headed?” John asked.

“Something simple. Fish and chips? And a pint? Sounds good, yeah?”

“Sounds good.” For the first time in weeks John realized he was ravenously hungry. “Very good, actually. Later on though, um, tell her thank you from me.”

“Who Anne?” Lestrade asked, raiding a curious eyebrow. “For what?”

“For sharing the load. She'll understand.”


	2. Sharing the Load: Shared Nightmare

**Shared Nightmares**

She awoke with a start.

Involuntarily her whole body jerked as if electrocuted and her eyes snapped open, breath being sucked in with a sharp gasp. For a moment she stared wildly, disorientated, before realization began to trickle its way back in. Darkened bedroom, warm blankets, a large warm body in the bed with her. Lestrade pulled her even more back to reality and she slowly let out a sigh, her sight focusing on the curtains.

Lestrade, classically spooned around his wife, stirred as well, his arms shifting to pull her in closer. “Hmmm?” he murmured, a low pleasant buzz in her ear.

“Sorry,” she whispered, running a hand along his arm, “Go back to sleep.”

“Bad dream?” He mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“No,” she replied and gently urged, “Go back to sleep.” She knew, for the most part, that once Greg was awake, he wouldn't go back to sleep.

“Why's your heart trippin' like a jackhammer then?” he mumbled sleepily in her ear.

Anne sighed, a soft smile flirting on her lips. Ever the detective, always asking questions. “Yes, it was a bad dream.” 

“You all right?” he quietly asked. 

Anne smiled, clutching his arms closer to her. The vestiges of the dream were escaping her, she was snug in the secure circle of her husband's arms. She reveled in the warmth of it. “I'm fine, love.”

“Same dream?” he asked.

Anne nodded. “It's passing. It's all right,” she reassured him. His small murmur of acknowledgment told her he was still in that quasi state of wakefulness and sleep. She, however, was now wide awake. She glanced at their clock, inwardly groaning at the fact it was only a few minutes past two in the morning and came to a decision. 

She carefully slipped out of bed, causing him to groan a little. “Don't nick the warm spot, I'll be right back,” she whispered, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. 

“I don't nick warm spots,” he muttered, rolling onto his stomach in her place in the bed, curling his arms in, his characteristic smirk stealing across his lips. He still hadn't once opened his eyes.

Anne leaned over, kissing his cheek gently. “Yes, you do you heat seeking pig,” she whispered in his ear. He reminded her of a large content cat.

His acknowledgment came back as a cross between a mumble and an oink, causing her to smile with affection as she turned to snatch up a robe draped haphazardly across a nearby chair. As she made her way towards the bedroom door, his voice followed her.

“John's asleep on the couch.”

Anne paused, hand on the knob, remembrance flooding in. She tugged the robe into place and tied the sash, silently letting herself out of the room.

John had shown up unexpectedly. Which wasn't a problem -he had a long standing invitation to visit whenever he could. What surprised them was his actually taking them up on it. Outwardly, he was a normal as ever. They made a night of it, calling out for a meal, a few drinks, easy going conversations. Anne gave up on them around 10:00 trundling off to bed while the men continued on.

Anne and Lestrade were both keenly aware of the gulf of loneliness John currently found himself in and as unobtrusively as they could they included him in to their small circle of influence. They took great care not to push him into anything, knowing that John Watson was a strong individual with an intensely quiet pride. He dealt with his grief and loneliness in a way which suited him best. Still, they kept a friendly eye on him and were silently glad he had accepted an invitation to their home.

Pausing at the doorway, Anne glanced at the back of their couch, sensing rather than seeing John laid out on it, before padding softly towards the kitchen.

She hadn't had nightmares since she was a little child, but since the kidnapping the previous year and the nuclear meltdown of her family, she wasn't surprised to find she was having them. She didn't remember much from them, mostly fragments of horrific scenes that had occurred directly to her. They passed quickly enough, but she was inevitably left awake, shaking from the effects the nightmares left behind. Shivering, she decided it was more from the chill in their flat, than the effects of bad dreams.

She found, to her fond amusement, that she'd fallen back on an old remedy Consuela, the Richardson family cook, had used on her as a child. A warm glass of milk. 

Only in her case, it had to be chocolate milk.

Glancing at John, apparently sound asleep under a pair of blankets on their couch, Anne silently padded into the kitchen, and as mutely as possible got out a glass, a spoon, and a tin of Nestle's Quik. Gingerly she opened up the fridge, flinching as her eyes snapped shut at the sudden light as she reached in and tugged out the milk jug.

Silently she added the powder to the glass, poured in the milk and stirred, then looked up at her microwave and frowned. No way was she going to be able to use it without the bell ringing and in the silent flat it would sound like a fire bell going off and she was loathe to wake her guest up.

She sighed, idly stirring the milk, contemplating warming it up the old fashioned way, but that involved finding the small pan in amongst the others and that too would produce noise. Hearing the sounds of John shifting on the couch she glanced his way.

“Warm milk?” he asked.

Anne started, looking at him in surprise as he reached up one hand to cradle behind his head, the other unconsciously smoothing the blanket across his stomach. “Did I wake you?” she whispered mortified.

“No, no no...” he reassured softly. “I was awake.”

“I'm sorry!” she said in a hushed whisper.

“Don't be.” He looked at her curiously. “Is that warm milk?” he asked.

Anne didn't reply right away, just pointing at her microwave. A nod from John and she proceeded to warm up her glass. “Chocolate. Want some?” she asked.

“Nahh,” he drawled sleepily. “Can't sleep?” He asked.

Anne let out a soft snort. “Bad dream,” she said waiting for the microwave to go off. “Sure I can't make you a glass? What woke you?”

“Bad dream, ” he replied, shaking his head at her offer. The bell dinged, loud in the still flat, as Anne quickly put the milk away in the fridge. Grabbing her glass, she padded silently into the living room.

“You? A bad dream?” She asked quietly as she curled up like a cat in the loveseat across from him. She tucked the robe in demurely around her legs and settled back, holding the glass in both hands.

“Nightmares, yes,” John replied, looking over at her. “Happen to the best of us.”

Anne nodded. “Greg has had some doozies. You sure I didn't wake you?”

John smiled, unable to resist a picture of Lestrade shooting straight out of bed from a nightmare. He nodded his head. “You didn't wake me,” he reassured then he studied her a moment. “You still having bad dreams about last year?”

“Yeah...” Anne admitted, then looked at him, she shrugged. “And Montana. You?”

He paused and she could see it all play across his face in the dimly lit confines of the flat. 

“Don't answer that,” she said quickly. “You don't have to. Of course, you would.”

Sherlock's apparent suicide reared its ugly head yet again. Those closest to John Watson knew he had witnessed the entire event. They also knew of his deep reluctance to talk about it. Plus he was an army veteran, his wartime experiences no doubt often reared their ugly little heads in the deep and dark hours of the night.

“Is that how you cope?” he asked. “Warm chocolate milk?” It seemed absurd, a grown woman drinking warm milk to get back to sleep, but coming from Anne Lestrade, John somehow wasn't all that surprised.

“Consuela used to make it for me when I was a kid. Mexican cocoa, big dash of cinnamon mixed in. Started doing it again last year after all that business up in Whitby. Only it's Nestle's Quik. Can't get Abuela's over here.” Her Americanism crept through.

“Does it work?”

Anne shrugged, sipping carefully, studying her guest. He was relaxed well enough, even to the point of having kicked off his shoes and socks. His bare feet poked out from under the edges of the blanket. He was idly toeing the armrest of the couch.

“Helps me get past the jitters I guess,” she said softly. 

He nodded, looking up at the ceiling. “Do they make any sense?” he asked.

Anne frowned, her gaze on the carpet but her thoughts inward. “Not really.” She looked at him. “Do yours?”

John shook his head. “No. No sense at all.”

The question was out before Anne realized it but what surprised her more was the reaction. “What doesn't make sense?” she asked him. She was about to retract the question when John sighed, frowning slightly, running his hand up his chest.

“That day. Things aren't adding up. It's been months now and they still don't make sense.”

Anne froze in place, carefully watching him, taking refuge in her glass of warm milk. John glanced at her and smiled ruefully.

“It's okay,” he said gently. “I don't mind.”

“Only if you're sure?” She gave him the option of bowing out. 

John smiled ruefully and nodded. “I've talked to Mike, you know?”

Anne nodded, Mike Stamford, a long-time friend of John's. He had been instrumental in introducing John to Sherlock as a potential flatmate.

“Sherlock lied when he said he'd researched me. I knew he was. Mike had never mentioned me to him. He hadn't seen me in years before we met that day. He didn't even know I'd been invalided out. He was shocked to see me for that matter. Sherlock couldn't have known I existed until Mike introduced us. He couldn't have researched me.”

“No,” Anne agreed, “Plus you've told us how he came to the wrong conclusion about your sister.”

“If he had checked up on me he would have known I didn't have brother,” John affirmed. “Sherlock was a good actor but he wasn't that good. He was irritated when he realized he'd drawn the wrong conclusion.”

Anne smiled gently. “He was when he realized I wasn't having that so called affair with the PE teacher.”

John snorted softly in remembrance. “Gets the details right...” he murmured.

“But not always the right conclusion,” she finished for him, with a tiny smirk curling her lip. She paused a moment then said softly. “You don't have to answer this John, if it's too much.”

He glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow in query.

“Could he... you know, could he still be alive somehow? I've heard stories about his brother and MI6?”

She saw the far away horror still lurking far back in his eyes, even in the darkened living room. The utter sense of loss and certainty. She was about to say something when he spoke.

“I took his pulse, Anne. There was nothing.” Spoken so softly and so full of sadness. He remembered the huge pool of blood wetting Sherlock's head and the pavement. The total lack of sight in those inscrutable pale eyes. It had to have been instantaneous, the impact...

Almost involuntarily the smart of tears sprang into Anne's eyes. 

“Even that didn't make sense,” he said, seeing her reaction. Anne blinked, sipping milk and looking at him. He glanced at her. “I saw him. When he, you know, when he...” John paused, taking a breath. He still couldn't say it out loud. “He was perpendicular to the building. By all accounts he should have landed that way in the street.”

Silence crept into the room again as John relieved the memory. “Then that idiot on the bike hit me.”

Anne frowned, trying to get a sense of what John had seen that day. “Perpendicular?” she whispered, perplexed.

“Looking back he was parallel to the building on the pavement. At least that's what I can recall. That idiot hit me hard enough that I landed on my bad shoulder. Bounced my head off the road. Knocked me for a loop.” 

“Do you think the biker was involved somehow?” Anne started.

John just shook his head. “That doesn't make any sense either. Anyway by the time I started realizing what all had happened, that biker was long gone.” A frown had appeared on John's face. Silence settled around them again.

“Sometimes, I have found,” Anne said quietly, “we simply aren't meant to understand things. Look at my mother.” She said in self-mockery. “Who knew she was capable of manipulating someone into killing for her? In a way I am not surprised that Randy pulled the trigger, but my own mom?” 

John snorted softly. “I keep telling myself that, too. It certainly doesn't make any sense at all. Everything he said. He was keen on having me believe that he was lying all along and that everything had been invented. And he was even more keen on having me tell everyone that.”

“See, I don't get that either,” Anne said. “Sherlock loved pulling all the bits and pieces together and figuring out how they all fit. He was proud of that. Especially at how fast he could do it.”

John nodded. In this tiny little haven of a flat, he knew the people around him didn't believe a word Sherlock had said in his supposed 'note'. 

“Why do what he did and completely destroy his own reputation?” Anne murmured.

“I can't help but think he was trying to protect something, maybe even me, I don't know,” John admitted with a shrug a hint of frustration in his voice. “I've no idea. We may never know now.” 

John had told Lestrade about the several assassins living around 221B in those final days leading up to Sherlock's death. Neither man hadn't mentioned that fact to Anne. John thought about them yet again and for the thousandth time wondered if Sherlock had been trying to protect those he considered close from further harm. Moriarty had certainly been devious enough to try and get everyone convinced that Sherlock had invented him. John wouldn't put it past him to try just about anything, having experienced his own personal brand of Moriarty's madness. That alone was the stuff of nightmares in and of itself. John knew, however, that Moriarty was real and that Mycroft Holmes knew that as well, even if the tight-lipped bastard wasn't saying a damn thing these days. John sighed. He had his own grievances with the elder Holmes.

“It all seems kinda out of whack, doesn't it?” Anne asked softly.

“Hmm?” John murmured, pulling himself out of his thoughts. He shook himself and glanced at Anne.

“This whole business with Sherlock. Something isn't sitting right about it besides everything that doesn't make sense.”

“Yeah...” John agreed, then caught himself trying to stifle a yawn. “No matter how we try and fit all the pieces in.”

Anne drained the last of her milk and sat up. “I think it worked.”

“What?” John asked frowning and glancing at her. 

“The chocolate milk. You were falling asleep on me there.” Anne stood up.

“No I, “ he started then looked at her in chagrin. “I'm not the one drinking it.” John pointed out.

“But you were the one drifting off.” She smiled and headed for the kitchen. “Go back to sleep John, I'll see you in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“Oh, funny man.” She teased, setting her glass in the sink and heading for the bedroom.

“You're the one getting chocolate milk in the middle of the night.”

“But you were falling asleep first.”

John started to open his mouth in protest but Anne just grinned at him from the doorway.

“Good night, John!” she whispered at him as she turned the knob. She barely heard his soft snort of amusement.

He was still awake when he heard the click of the door shutting and he lay there a moment, listening to the sounds of the flat as a drowsy peace settled over him. He was struck by how easy it seemed to him to tell the little details of his life to Anne and how much of a struggle it had been to talk to his therapist. Then again he also knew his private sessions with his therapist had been efficiently, and ruthlessly, plundered by Mycroft Holmes at least once before. He simply didn't trust her anymore. 

Lestrade and Anne were different. That and Anne was good at wheedling information out of him. He was ever grateful that she was an extraordinarily discreet creature, not to mention a fast friend. These two he trusted.

He sighed, feeling his shoulders relax, a faraway ache seeming to subside and drain away. For a moment he reflected on Anne's own turbulent past year or so, not blaming her one bit for having nightmares about her experiences. One positive result of those experiences were the repairs being made to the Lestrade's marriage. John carefully avoided the black hole of loneliness threatening to rise up inside of him. God knows he had dealt with that particular demon far too often in the past. He kept it firmly in check. Plus time had been passing and he was moving on, despite circumstances. 

He let out another, longer more relaxing sigh, his eyes shutting and he could feel that pleasant lull of twilight sleep creeping up over him. He let himself succumb to the feeling and before too long he let himself fall back to sleep.


End file.
